Vice City: New Millennium
by Onkwehonwe Kashatstenhshera
Summary: Four different criminals are trying to make their way in Vice City. Yaholo, a rez dog and escaped prisoner who has made his way back to his home state, Zara , a refugee seeking asylum in Vice City looking for revenge for a friend and her parents, Willie, the son of a notorious cartel leader, and Randy, a Dixie Mobster who is trying to make inroads in Vice City. M for content


Ocean Beach, Vice City

2010

Mi Familia

Williie Escobedo was on his way home from a cab ride from Escobar International Airport. He had not been home in a long time. He was originally from Little Havana. He was a man with moderate brown skin. He had jet black neck length hair and was of Cuban heritage On his father's side, he was Cuban.

A mix of Taino, African and Spanish, though the majority of it was Spanish and only about 10% was Taino. On his mother's side he was Colombian. In fact, his mother was one of the major Colombian cartel queenpins from the 70's and 80's. She'd lived there in the 70's and 80's but by the late 80's had settled in Vice City for good.

Willie was thirty years old. He had a slim but athletic build. He was not a tall man, he stood only 5'6. His parents had divorced back in the late 90's when he was still a child. His father had a child through another marriage to a woman born and raised in his same barrio, Calle Ocho. His older brother Ronaldo and older sister Marisol. He also had a younger brother and sister.

He got back to the hotel he would be staying at. The truth was, Willie had spent the last several years in South America. He had lived in several countries in fact. When Willie was sixteen he had run away from home and had petitioned the court for emancipation. He had been angry with his parents for divorcing since he had brothers and sisters from both parents but only he was born from them and he got tired of their fighting.

He had gotten on a freighter to South America in '96 and he traveled to Peru. Not long after that, he had joined the Tupac Amaru Revolutionary Movement. Though school did not teach much on South Ameria's natives, since he knew from his partial Taino ancestry that originally, Tainos had come from South America, he wanted to learn more about it.

His mother had significantly more Indigenous blood than her fater did and yet she didn't identify with. She was a Colombian above all else. It was strange to him. Rednecks in the south would swear they were Cherokees so would black guys based on maybe a great great great grandparent they never met and islanders would cling to a little bit of taino ancestry but his mother was damn near full blooded herself but culturally didn't give a shit.

He read books in school all the time about Tupac Amaru and Tupac Amaru II. Then he had learned about and eventually joined the group wanting to make a difference especially since Alberto Fujimori, the Japanese Peruvian was behind the sterilization of up to 300,00 Indigenous women. Willie had been a young idealist and before long, while the Japanese Embassy crisis was happening, Willie was involved in four shootouts, and two bombings. The first two shootouts had been against the terrorist organization known as the Shining Path. The first time, he had shot three people and killed two of them. The second time he killed five.

He wanted to just come home and relax. He had joined up to get away from the gangs and the drugs and see the world. The third time, he had killed five police officers and the next time, he had killed two police officers. The next time he killed, he bombed a Japanese restaurant that was a favorite of Japanese Peruvian soldiers. He had killed five people people and wounded twenty more. The second bombing was a car bomb that killed four Peruvian soldiers.

When the Embassy Crisis was going down, the government was going after the MRTA and he had to escape the country. He went to Colombia. This was a risk because his mother was well known down there and could have reported to her that her runaway son was down there.

Luckily for him, in Peru he was known under a false name, Rudolfo Gaitan, but his face had been on wanted posters all over Lima. He'd been arrested in January of '97 and he had spent three months in there even though the government had no evidence that he had actually done what they said he did. His last bombing of the four soldiers was after the MRTA had been taken down. He was retaliating for his friends.

But because of this, he had to leave the country even though he loved Peru. he ended up going first to Brazil and he did what he could to help the tribes there against the loggers. He spoke no Portuguese so communication was not easy but some of the people knew Spanish because of bordering Spanish speaking countries.

He enjoyed the time he spent in the Amazon but not in the overall country of brazil as he saw that what Indians there were outside the Amazon that were subject to Anti Indigenous treatment. Still, he killed loggers when he could.

He became known as the Robin Hood of the Rain Forrest. That label followed him into Colombia. Out of scarcity of work, however, in 98' he had joined the cartel in Cali with their competition having gone defunct in '93 he didn't think that would be as big of a risk and it was easy money but as it turned out the government was cracking down on and dismantling them that very year. Without much money after the cartel's fall and now that most cartels were starting to be in Mexico which was thousands of miles away, he joined FARC.

A choice he would come to regret within two years when he learned that they, while not as bad as some other groups, had killed Native people in Colombia, raped some women, and taken some children as soldiers. He ended up killing several members of FARC before retreating from Colombia into Venezuela, ironically, the opposite of which direction most people went between the two countries. He stayed there from 1999 to 2001.

All though he had sworn off his Communist views especially after learning not only what Che and Marx had said about Latin America's Indian tribes, an irony as many Chicano liberal college students loved them both, he did not voice his discontent with Socialism out loud. It would have been detrimental to do so.

Within two years, he left and went to Bolivia next and lived there for four years until he learned that FARC was after him as were some in the Peruvian government who wanted to extradite him to Peru and some of their influence reached into other countries. Then he had ended up going to live in Ecuador for the rest of his time outside the United States until the same problem happened again.

The thing that interested him most about governments trying to get him as well as paramilitary groups was the fact that that he knew he had seen Americans watching him at times especially during the shit going on in Peru.

They seemed to know what he had done. In truth, they had even recruited him. He was not a member of the IAA but he had been an asset for them against FARC. That was his way of earning his way back home to the States since he didn't have a passport when he had left.

He had combat training but he wanted to put his guns up. That was not to say that he would not still own a gun. It would be insane not to. Vice City had dropped in crime rate since the 80's and 90's but not by that much. He was wanting to see his mother and father but in a way though he loved papa, he was also reluctant to see him again because he knew he would be up to the same old shit in the criminal underworld, too.

His father, Hernando was an old school high ranking member of the Cuban gang Los Cabrones. In the early 80's they had engaged with a Mexican American gang and came out victorious. In the mid 80's, they had warred with a Haitian gang and again come out on top.

The man who had been running the gang back then was killed in '88, the year that Willie was born. As were most of his closest friends. The Haitians had reemerged stronger than ever and though most of Los Cabrones had been killed in various wars with them and other later arrivals, the man who had run the gang had been killed by a Nicaraguan national.

When a lot of Nicaraguans started to go there in the 80's fleeing their country's civil war, as well as Guatemalans, this leader had thought that the new Central American arrivals would try and contend with his gang as the Mexicans and the Haitians had so he had sent a lot of his soldiers to trash Nicaraguan owned businesses in Little Havana.

The business owners were never a gang but many of them did band together against gang tyranny. So he'd sent more goons to trash their stores and terrorize them. His papa had been one of the goons.

One day, at a Cafe in Little Havana, one of the Nicaraguans walked in with a .357 and shot the gang leader and two of his men. The gang leader's father who had always been known to have a weak heart, had a heart attack. His final heart attack.

The Nicaraguan had fled and was not spotted again. Some thought the Cubans got him but a lot of people believed he had either moved to another city or been deported which was the more than likely scenario. He tried to shoot his father but he had run out of bullets. His mother had met his father at Club Malibu 8 years earlier in a coked out dancing frenzy.

The irony of this was also that his father had carried the gang since '88. By that time they had branched out to other cities with Cuban populations in Liberty City and Los Santos, a far cry from when his father had arrived in Vice City in 1980 when he was just 20 years old. He had been alongside the veteranos from those days who had warred with the defunct Cholos gang.

His father had been locked up in 84' after that war had concluded for coke possession and was released two years later in '86 when a certain man from Liberty City had arrived and basically took the town over.

The Cubans had been his ally. But that man was now long gone too. Whether he was dead, retired or otherwise, Willie didn't know. It seemed his father was one of the last 80's relics from those days as was his mother.

His mother had wanted to rub out the Italian American Libertonian for his actions against Ricardo Diaz and had a large enough army to do so but Hernando had convinced her that an alliance with him was better. Instead, what she did, was make sure that while the mafia had tried to stop Colombian influence in Liberty City, she had made sure they would never be as powerful in Vice City.

His father had been locked up again in '86 for stealing a gold '84 Admiral and spent the next two years in prison. Through most of Willie's childhood he was around and he had stayed out of prison but he had continued to run things behind the scenes.

By '90, his parents ,his parents divorced. he had a pretty happy childhood and he would spend two weeks of the year with his mother and two with his father switching off each week. It didn't last. By High School, they were fighting again as if they were still married.

"¿Cuánto tiempo ha pasado desde que has vuelto aquí?" Asked the Cuban American cab driver, a middle aged man with light brown skin and a receding hairline. (How long has it been since you've been back here?)

Willie replied, "Catorce años."

(Fourteen years.)

"Eso es mucho tiempo, amigo. ¿Tienes familia aquí?"

(That's a long time, friend. Do you have any family here?)

Willie replied, "Sí. Mi madre y mi padre, hermanos y hermanas ..y tu?."

(Yeah. My mother and father, brothers and sisters...And you?)

"I got the best wife in the world and 5 kids. Driving this cab to put my youngest nina through college."

They stopped at the red light. Just then four people rushed the side of the cab. There were four masked gunmen. The first man carried a .44 Magnum, and he was a Caucasian male with brown hair as Willie could see as a few strands poked out. He stood maybe 6 feet tall and had tan skin. He wore a green blazer and blue jeans. Middle aged if he had to guess.

The next man was African American, carrying an M3 Shotgun. He wore a dark blue T shirt and a pair of skinny blue jeans and white Eric sneakers. If Willi had to guess, maybe late 20's. The next was a female who was some kind of South American, most likely Venezuelan. She had an AK-47. The fourth was a black Jamaican based on his accent and stood 5'11. He carried two Glocks. They were all screaming at the driver. The man with the .44 seemed to be in charge.

"Give it up, old man! We're taking every fair you got!"

The older man stated, "Chica, ¿qué estás haciendo? Hay lugares más grandes para tomar que un taxi en Ocean Beach. ¿Estás tan desesperado? No tengo más de $ 300."

(Girl, what are you doing? There are bigger places to take than a cab in Ocean Beach. Are you that desperate? I don't have more than $300)

She aimed the AK at the older man's head. "Callete baldie!" She aimed at Willie. "You too, motherfucker! Give it up!"

He handed his watch over. "The fucking necklace too!" She growled. He had a look of disbelief. "My mother gave me this."

"I don't give a fuck!"

He handed her the silver necklace Crucifix. She handed the jewelry to the Jamaican robber. "This is a little heavy for sticking up a cab."

The African American pointed the shotgun at his head. "Didn't you hear the lady say shut the fuck up? Next word out of you is gonna be your last."

The Jamaican opened fire with both guns striking the older man in the chest. Willie saw that he was drawing a gun of his own. It was a .380 stainless. He tried to shoot Willie too but Willie shielded himself beneath the deceased cabbie even as another round struck the bald man in the side of the face. The woman fired the AK into the backseat.

He had seen it coming and he ducked down the rounds hit the bullet resistant glass. The glass was all over the place and he pushed himself into the front seat and he rolled despite the glass and he slammed his foot on the gas accelerating the car and he tried to steer it out of there.

He floored it but the light was green in the other direction. He crashed the car across the street narrowly missing a honking Moonbeam. He got out of the car with his right arm bloodied up from the glass but he came up with the .380 returning fire. He aimed hitting the one closest to him. He fired striking the Venezuelan woman. He hit her in the left ankle and she cried out in pain falling over. He hit her with another round in the left side of the torso.

He fired next at the man with the .44 hitting him in the left shoulder. He was trying to him in the neck but he ducked down. He tried to take shots at the man with the M3 but the man fired back at Willie forcing him to cover behind the cab. He took off towards the water when he saw they were trying to flank him. He jumped down in the water. They fired at the water but he stayed down.

He held his breath and he waited. One minute went by. Then two. Then three. "That motherfucker had to have drowned!" Cried the man who had fired the M3. He could hear their voices receding. "I know I hit that motherfucker. You saw that shot I landed just before he went under? I think I took his head clean off," Stated the redneck with the .44. From the sounds of his accent, Willie suspected that he was from Northern Florida. It was muffled but it had been what he had heard when they were jacking them.

He swam back to the shore. He was shivering and knew he would have swimmers ear but the water had protected him from the bullets. He climbed out. They were gone and the cops were coming. He knew they would be drawing guns on him as soon as they got out of their cars. He let the pistol hit the ground and he dropped to his knees with his hands on his head.

Before long they were seeing to his wounds taking a statement. He had by some miracle, not been shot. He had just been cut with the glass. They ended up putting him in the back of the car and taking him to the station. He noticed another figure moving in the dark. He couldn't tell what they looked like or if it was a man or a woman but somebody was staggering from the ocean. They collapsed on the sand. He turned to the officer who was taking him downtown, one Ephraim Fernandez, a Mexican American officer from Washington Beach. "Hey pues...there's somebody out there on the shores. Coming in just like I did..."

The officer flashed his light onto the beach. He called it on the radio.

39 Hours Later

Due to cameras at the intersection and eyewitness statements, they were able to prove that he was innocent and that the shooting he had done was in self defense. He was to be released but they waned him to be careful. That the people who had done it were still out there. They put out an APB on the descriptions he gave and while he had only saw bits and pieces of what they looked like through the mask as far as skin tone, they had something to go on and would be checking all hospitals in Vice City but the VCPD were certain that most likely, they would not be checking into a hospital.

He went outside to see his brother Ronaldo. "Willie! Que bola contigo?" Ronaldo was an overweight Cuban with light brown skin with a yellowish tint to it. He had a handle bar mustache and wore a white fedora and a red and yellow Hawaiian t shirt and blue two Cuban Americans hugged. "Ronaldo.. Que vuelta, hermano?"

"What happened here..." He shook his head. "It wasn't right. There's some dishonorable hijo de putas on the streets, I'm not gonna lie to you, Will. But things have gotten a lot better."

They got into his brother's red Hermes and began to drive. "Things look different around here, bro! I mean a lot of things look the same but still. I can see a lot has changed."

"Yeah, that's true. Little Havana has too. it's still mostly Cubano businesses but there's a lot of Nicarguans and Hondurans now."

"What about papa? And the streets?"

"Papa...he's getting by best he can but you know how it is. Those punks from the Hispanic Syndicate are still around. They're a bunch of young maricones that think they don't gotta respect nada."

"Those putos are still around? Fuck...those guys were punks in High School. I always had to bust their asses. They always started shit. Trying to take over schools on the west side? Fuck that."

"Yeah, that's what I'm saying. I never had that much of a problem with their Original Gangster, man. El Trineo was cool but he got locked up when you were still here."

"Yeah I remember. Put a hole in the head of some guy from Ocean Beach Posse right?"

"Yeah...but unlike that bitch El Nivel he had some respect for us. I mean who do these HS punks think they are? It was Los Cabrones that made it all right to be a Cuban and be safe in this city. Not have to be scared of los Yumas, los prietos, nada."

"Yeah I remember him too. He always was a punk. He thinks he's hot shit cause he could box...but I still fought him and showed him what's what."

"Didn't you lose that fight?" Asked Ronaldo. "No! If anything it was a stand still. But that didn't matter. Cause that loud mouth told the school he won. Truth is he always was a bitch though. he used his boxing mostly on guys smaller than him. Some prieto once called him a Cuban pussy and he pulled a gun. If you're so hardcore why would he need a pistola to handle business?"

"You must have been overseas for a while, brother because he went pro. Even he turned to God. But papa and me we never liked him. He always talked like a prieto. And not even a Cubano one cause them and us we talk the same way."

"Yeah I guess. But what's the deal with Hispanic Syndicate and LC?"

"He might act like he's not still in it but he's respected in his neighborhood. Los Cabrones was there on that first boat lift you know that. You were first generation from papa but you always respected where we come from. And the fact that Los Cabrones made our gente a force to be reckoned with. Then at the end of the 80's these new school punks think they're just gonna come in and disrespect us? And on top of that they allied with some Puerto Rican crew which would be fine if it was from around here but it's not. They're allied with Carcer City crews. It's like these days Vice City aint Vice as much. Starting to see a lot of LS gangs coming down here as the barrios change but you got Carcer City crews doing that even more. And sure, there's Vagos y Aztecas even Mara Cuca in this city but they know if they try and start any shit in Little Havana we'll run them out of Vice. Except with HS, these faggots want to contend with us for our own neighborhood."

"Well that makes them old school too. In case you didn't notice it's 2010. Those guys started in 89' and they were trying to act all bad ass when I was in High School and even before that, shit back when you were. Maybe all the crews are dinosaurs, eh? But then, it'll still be LC history remembers. That's who came here on those boat lifts."

"Yeah but Hispanic Syndicato is more into the Hip Hop scene and the whole bling shit. Walking around with gold teeth. They're flashier and they're recruiting at high School. We expect our guys to be grown. This aint the 80's with Castro telling us to fuck off. Besides, even if a lot of those guys did start only nine years after the fact most of their numbers still came from the 90's and the early 2000's. All though they're only a hundred or so and they've started taking in yumas and prietos. They can't even call themselves a Cuban crew they're as bastardized as the Carcer City cliques they want to suck off."

"What crews?"

"Like the Monarchos...bunch of fags walking around wearing black and pink. Puerto Rican crew."

"They're still over there on 47th and Tamagler?"

"Yeah...it's crazy. They act like they live in a certified barrio. But I've been through their neighborhood. They thought I was just some fat middle aged guy. They don't know I probably killed some of their padres. But that's not what's loco. That neighborhood aint even poor. Middle class Cubanos living with a bunch of Yumas. Still beefing with Ocean Beach like they always have but now they're showing disrespect to older generations. They think they're better than the first Cubanos that were coming out here..bunch of assimilated bitches."

Little Havana

As they drove west they finally arrived. They got outside and stopped at the cafe that had once been owned by a gang run by a father and a son and now it seemed it was no different now except now their father was the last of the originals. His father was fifty. He had a receeding hairline and light brown skin sad brown eyes and he wore a dark blue Hawaiian t shirt and white pants. His name was Hernando Bevilaqua. He looked at his son with tears in his eyes as he hadn't seen him since the 90's.

"Willie?!" He embraced him in a hug. "Mi hijo! Look at you! Guapo as ever before!" Willie grinned, "I missed you papa. Como esta?"

"I'm better now that you're back!"

"Lo siento ... me fui ... nunca debería haberme ido."

(I'm sorry...I left...I should have never went away.)

"No te culpo por necesitar ver el mundo. Todos lo hacemos. La mayoría de las personas mueren a 50 millas de donde nacieron. Esto era normal hace mil años, pero la humanidad no ha cambiado mucho todavía. Pero tú eres William Bevilaqua. ¡Mi pequeño explorador!"

(I don't blame you for needing to see the world. We all do. Most people die 50 miles from where they were born. This was normal a thousand years ago but humanity hasn't changed much yet. But you are William Bevilaqua. My little exploror! )

His sister was there also, a Cuban American woman with light brown skin and big brown eyes. She set eyes on him. She had long black hair and an intense look to her. Though Hernado only had 10 % Indigenous heritage the mother he had married to have her and Reynoldo had more Indigenous Arawak blood than Hernando though she did not have as much Indigenous blood as Willie or his mother and neither did her daughter but it was still more than their father and more apparent than it was in Reynoldo.

"You...what are you doing back here? You're here just to get back in trouble?"

"Hey...it aint like that, hermana..."

'Don't call me that, Willie. You stopped being mi hermano when you left us. You were never happy with us...your familia here in Vice City. i get it. We had different moms than you. But you abandoned her too. And now you're back?"

He grabbed her arm in anger and she growled, "Let go of me, cabron!" He pulled her outside. "You're gonna give me a lecture about not being a criminal anymore? I wanted to see what the rest of the world was like..."

"I aint a criminal, Willie neither is mama but I don't try and run away from Little Havana either. I don't turn my back on the family and the city that raised me. You've been gone since before the New Millennium. You couldn't even spend the new year one last new year with your family. And now you expect to be welcomed back? Papa y Reynoldo may be happy to see you...but I'm not."

"Whatever, you know? I don't EXPECT anything. I didn't even know you were gonna be here. Y tu? You might not be in a gang but you're still busting your ass living paycheck to paycheck i can tell that much...working in the cafe...?

"You two...come inside..." Ordered Papa. "You're familia. You shouldn't be fighting."

"He wanted out of this family, papa.I'm just willing to hold him to that."

She stormed to the back. "Nina, where are you going?!" Demanded Hernando. "Ven Aqui!"

"I'm taking a smoke break!"

"Pendeja! You only started to get more breaks! I'm your papa! I can still refuse them to you!"

"Then I'll quit!" She shouted back. "¡¿Dejarás el único trabajo que nunca te despedirá ?! Dudo mucho de esto, hija!" He sreamed.

(You'll quit the only job that will never fire you?! I doubt this very much, daughter!)

His father turned to him with a sigh. "Listen, mijo I am glad you are back but you should also go see your spent years not knowing where you were."

Ronaldo told him, "But first, i'm taking you back to the apartment you can stay with me. The cops had your stuff from the cab shootout when you had your luggage."

They began to drive back. "So from your letters, you said you were staying in America again before you got back to Vice. Where were you while you were getting back to the Anglo world, mano?"

"i wouldn't exactly call it anglo. I was in Los Santos. Just for a little under a year. it was...interesting. I knew a lot of Mexicanos and Salvadorans lived there but I didn't know there was a small Cubano community out 's interesting. The anglos that did live there didn't seem to get that we don't eat tacos."

" I do...i'll eat anything..." The overweight Cuban said with a laugh. "Yeah, don't get me wrong they're good but it's not Cuban food."

Willie sighed. "Fuckin Vice...I thought I'd never see it again. I didn't think I would live down there and even if i did, I didn't expect I'd ever be back on US soil."

"What happened down there, bro?"

"Shit happened...maybe i'll tell you about it some day and I'm sure you even read about it in the papers all those years but...it's complicated. I got mixed up with some bad people. Bad even by my standards. I was an asshole to run away just cause my parents divorced. I thought it would be normal the way things were that I could still have both parents and that they could get along for my sake but i was wrong. But instead of sticking around to deal with that, I ran."

"Hey i don't blame you. Sometimes Vice City can get crazy and it was crazy in '96. That High School you were at was crazy and if you hadn't left, you might not have lived."

"Yeah but to escape the barrio cause shit is too crazy just to go somewhere else that's even more violent...i just wanted to see the world. El Indio Mundo...I'd heard in some ways South America, the Amazon was a place where people still lived free without being fucked with by the Yumas like out here. But when I got there, I learned things weren't that simple."

"Nothing ever is, hermanito."

They pulled up to the spot. They went upstairs and Republican Space Rangers was on the TV. "You're staying with me, hermano."

It was a house and though the outside of it was pretty beat up, it still had two bedrooms. He noticed pictures of smiling children as well as Ronaldo and a beautiful woman of Cuban descent. In his letters, he had told Willie about his marriage but he had not known about it. "Tu espousa?"

"Si. But...we'll talk about that later. When you get settled in, I'll take you to meet your nieces and nephews. You probably need to go see your mom, right? You can take my car. Just don't wreck it. I remember how you used to drive when you were 14."

"That was a long time ago. And I will. I'll be back tonight."

He got into the Hermes and began to drive to Little Colombia. Little Bogota was an enclave of the greater area of Abiaka, which was a mostly Spanish speaking area. About 21% of the population there was Cuban but of Abiaka's 8% total Colombian population, the greatest concentration of Colombians was in the little Little Bogota area. The only area that maybe had more was the general Ocean Beach and Washington Beach area as they were spread out but this was where they were most concentrated.

He pulled up seeing the old house had spent half his time growing up in. He knocked on the door. She saw him and smacked him. She was a brown skinned older woman Her hair long and black. She was in her 60's but she looked about 10 years younger except for her hair being gray now.. Her name was Graciella Escobedo.

"Fourteen years..." The Colombian queenpin woman stated. "That's how long you've been away from me. From us! Cabron!'

"I wanted to get out of the barrio. And you and papa...the split? It was too much. I needed out."

"You needed out..." She said lighting a cigarette. "But you were doing the same thing down there. I still have a lot of friends at home miito. So maybe you didn't kill for our empire but you killed for some other misguided cause!"

"So you admit your cause is misguided? Feeding this shit to our gente? Getting all of Vice City strung out? It aint the 80's anymore mama. Things changed. People can't just party with a table full of white out in the open."

"You just remember one thing cabroncito...that dope put food in your bellies and clothes on your back and a roof over your head! You don' know what it was to grow up in Colombia. You lived there but you didn' grow up there. You thought the guerillas and the commuistas were bad in the 90's? They were worse in my day. For all your talk of drugs being bad...I heard you were doing Ahayuasca down there. Chasing some old Indio fantasy..."

"Mama, you're talking about yourself too. Where do you think we got those features from?"

"Somos mestizos y mestizas. Things are different now. We don't get to be Incans, or Mayans or none of that stuff you read about in books. Those Incas, you know they committed human sacrifice? The Spanish were harsh but at least they kept us from doing that anymore..."

"Mama...they burned Indio children alive! I was there I saw the museums I talked to the people. The real fantasy is the Mestizo identity. Colombian Nationalism."

"Oh yeah? Then what tribe are you then Mr. Big Shot?"

"I don't know. Cause you never taught us that. A lot of the people in the cities...hated being Indio. But that's my roots I can't deny it!"

"You can't deny you come from drug money either. Your mama was a Queen. Still is. Of Colombia and Vice City. Tu padre...that small time pendejo...he's still doing what he does in Little Havana...y tu? Those tribes down there you tried to fight for. Guranis? They can't fight off loggers with bows and arrows. If they won't modernize at least enough to pick up an AK, then they're gonna have the same thing happen to them. I'm a realist. Unless they figure out how to make their own guns down there to fight the government, they'll always lose. Which means you'll always lose and I don't want to see you get hurt. Physically or mentally. Blancos don't still fight wars with swords anymore so they shouldn't think arrows will win."

She then asked, "What happened to your necklace? You took it with you when you went down there and I know with that skinny neck of yours you didn't outgrow it..."

"About that...when I got back...some people robbed me. I think one of them was Venezuelan."

"Aye dios mio..."

"Didn't papa tell you about it?"

"We're not talking! We have different values. ¡Rumbiar con todas esas putas mientras está casado con otra mujer! Siempre prenido. Gastando su plata en ron."

(Partying with all those putas while he's married to another woman! Always spending money on rum)

"Mama, Siempre terminaste divorciándote de los hombres con los que te casaste, incluido papá. ¿Crees que no recuerdo las fiestas? Las orgías que tuve que escuchar? Y sé que tenías dos de los hombres con los que te casaste después de que mataran a papá. tal vez no soy un buen hombre ... pero ¿qué ejemplo se me mostró?"

(You always ended up getting divorced from the men you married including papa. You think I don't remember the parties? The orgies i had to hear about? And I know you had two of the men you married after papa killed. maybe I'm not a good man...but what example was i shown?)

She threw a wash rag at him and he ducked. "Soy una mujer, Willie! Eres un hombre adulto, ahora lo sabes. Las mujeres tienen necesidades. A veces un hombre no es suficiente. Ni siquiera se trata de no estar satisfecho por uno. Tu padre y yo lo pasamos muy bien. Pero a veces quieres un hombre gordo, a veces quieres un hombre flaco a veces quieres un hombre peludo ..."

(I'm a woman, Willie! You're a grown man now so you know. Women have needs. Sometimes one man isn't enough. It's not even about not being satisfied by one. Your father and I had a great time. But sometimes you want a fat man, sometimes you want a skinny man sometimes you want a hairy man...)

"Ma, por favor! ¡No quiero escuchar eso! Yo también tenía necesidades, todos lo hicimos. La necesidad de no ver a nuestra madre resoplando yayo cuando pensó que no estábamos mirando. No ver hombres y mujeres extraños yendo y viniendo todas las horas de la noche. Dices que eres mejor que papá, pero cuando te divorciaste no te perdías el ritmo."

(Ma, please! i don't want to hear that! I had needs too we all did. The need to not see our mother snorting yayo when she thought we weren't looking. To not see strange men and women coming and going all hours of the say you're better than papa but when you divorced you didn't miss a beat.)

"I am still a Christian woman!" She shouted. "We all make mistakes. What it's okay for a man to have more than one woman but not the other way around?!"

"You can do whatever you want. But I'd rather not have seen it. You don't know the shit I got at school for it. Remember Jesus Palma? He and his boys tried to jump me cause his mama had some extra marital activities with a woman and she ended up in the hospital cause she OD'd on coke. At least papa didn't have his shit out in the open. Remember Tito Seguin? He wanted to come over just to get with you! He pretended to be my friend cause he 'heard' my mama was a freak!"

She chuckled lighting a cigarette. "Was he the macho with the wavy hair and the tattoo of Jesus in his chest? Aye que rico…"

"See what I mean? Papa never let me see any shit like that. I mean I wasn't protected from seeing neighborhood violence from either of you but at least I didn't have to hear about him getting with girls at the school!"

"LIAR!" She growled. "You always forgive him!"

He then glared. "You say that you're there for me and that I abandoned you? Well I was being questioned today. It was't you that sent a ride for me. You didn't come to get me. See if I needed plata for bail, nada. That was papa y mi hermano. So maybe you did give me a god childhood, lots of presents, family dinners, I thought we were the ideal family but then I learned it was all a lie."

"What do you expect from me, cabron? My other babies stood by their mother through the trials, the cops trying to lock me away...sicarios trying to take what I earned...but you ran at the first sign of trouble. You said you left cause we split up. But you saw your papa first. You didn't want to have to choose between us but you got back here and that's what you did!"

"I would have seen YOU if you had come to get me..."

"I DIDN'T KnOW!" She bellowed. He sighed. "This is going nowhere. i'm outta here. You know I'm alive and back in town. now I gotta go. Get back on my feet. Turns out i screwed myself coming out here again cause I didn't finish school out here and I don even know what jobs I can get now that I'm back after all these years. I'm pretty sure I'll be a pariah though."

"That was always your problem. Always negative never thinking positive. You make a lousy capitalist, nino."

"Well we all can't be blinded by cocaine euphoria, ma..."

"You think you're bettter than me?"

"No...and the truth is i did want to see my brothers and sisters and papa was there. But i wasn't ready to see him either but you can't choose family. I didn't wanna see either of you. Not yet. No till I got my shit together."

"Well let me tell you something, muchacho! I know you did the same things I did. And your papa did. It may not have been for the same things but you lost all rights to talk to me about moralism when you were with FARC."

"Mama, I did't KNOW the shit they were doing on the side but when I found out, I stopped being one of them that's the difference between me and you!"

Big Willow Seminole Reservation

 _Mama I'm Coming Home_

Yaholo Bromden had not been back to his home in seven years. He was twenty eight years old. He had been living in Oklahoma for several years. In truth, he was a fugitive. He had escaped from prison. When he was twenty one, he had sought to go to Oklahoma. Historically his people, had resisted going to the state so many were removed to but he knew more of his people lived out there including many Creeks than in the state he was in. He'd wanted to go out there and help those in poverty return to their homeland in the south.

He was a large man six foot six and muscular with tea colored skin and large biceps from his time in prison. The truth was, he had gotten involved with some bad people and had robbed banks to try and make money for his tribe and as a result found himself sentenced to life without parole.

He was not one for that so he and several members of the Tribal Brotherhood had busted out and he had faked his death. Despite the existence of the Native American prison gang he did not join. Sure, he believed in a lot of what they did as far as protecting their people, restoring tribal faith and promoting cultural revival and sobriety but when one joined as with any prison gang it was for life.

He had wanted to go back to Florida and his intentions were good. He had never wanted to do this the criminal way. Despite faking his death to escape the authorities and finally retreating from the Tribal Brothehood who felt that he owed them his life after escaping even though he had let them in on his plan to get out, he still had to be on the lamb. He lived in several states all over the midwest under an assumed name.

He had lived in the state of New Austin for some time and he had lived in Alabama even though he hated living down there the most. To change his appearance,he'd cut his long black hair despite not wanting to. He'd cut it until it was about four inches long. He'd grown it back, however as time went on and the public forgot about him. He'd hated Alabama the most because it was the bible belt. He was all about his traditions. He possessed a few tattoos. On his heart, was a tattoo of a burning American flag that had in built Turquoise letters, the words Non Treaty Indian.

There was truth to this tattoo, which he saw as a proclamation of war. Even though many Seminoles had been removed to Oklahoma, there remained a certain truth about them that no other tribe in the US could claim. The Apaches and the Lakotas were unique in that they were among some of the last tribes to surrender to the United States.

The Six Nations of the North East were unique in that their government had been the inspiration for the United States and while other tribes practiced democracy of a sort, none were as large of a confederate democracy as they. The Navajo were unique in that their language out of all those used in the second world war, only theirs was never cracked.

The Seminoles, however, had a different honor. They had never signed a peace treaty with the United States even when so many in fact most of them had been forced to go to Oklahoma. Many tribes, including those others that had honors of their own that made them unique, had resisted the US government and many had fought as hard as they could. But they were forced to concede land and sign away treaties. For the Seminole, they had resisted and though the United States said that they won, the reality was, they had failed to kick all Seminoles out of Florida.

The Seminoles were truly the masters of Swamp Guerilla Warfare. Now, dressed in a gray denim jacket, blue denim jeans and brown cowboy boots, he made his way to his childhood home.

His parents were both gone. His father had died from complications from Diabetes, insulin shock had taken him away. His mother had died when he was still in prison. Before he decided to escape. She tried to visit as much as she could but it was so far away. He blamed himself for her death.

In truth, she had agreed with what he wanted to do. She thought it was noble that he had wanted to get the Seminoles back to the homeland. But she did not agree with the ways in which he went about it.

"Auntie! Lensci estonko!"

His aunt was fifty two years old, a Native woman with light brown skin and jet black hair, her cheek bones high and she normally had somewhat of a sarcastic smirk to her face but as she saw him, she was angry.

She grabbed him pulling him inside with surprising strength. She was only 5'5 but she was strong. He was slammed against the door as soon as she got him inside. "WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!" She demanded. "We thought you were dead! The news said you were dead!"

"I…I was just trying to get out, Auntie. I was in a lot of trouble. And they had me in for life. Without parole. I was never going to want to do that! I'd rather die free than live in prison. They already had me in there a couple years anyway and I was gonna do as much time as it would have taken to get out but then life? No. I can't do it. I faked my death…and I got a new name."

"Brandon Littlefeather…." She scoffed at that. "So, 'Brandon' what brings you back? Is the law closing in on you?"

"No…I just needed to come home. Nobody's looking for me anymore so it doesn't matter."

"Look…don't get me wrong I'm glad you're alive…it's just that was a pretty fucked up thing to do to your family….." Her eyes softened a bit. "You want something to eat?"

"I'm okay...I ate at the airport."

"Bullshit..." She declared. "That's airport food. You're gonna eat a real meal now that you're home."

She began to whip up some food for him. Just then, a door opened and a brown skinned Seminole woman in her twenties stood there. "Deb!" She hugged had her jet black hair down and she wore just a blue blouse that was only down to her stomah and black and silver striped pajama bottoms. "You're alive!" She exclaimed. "How?!"

"Everything's fine, Deb. Mon Centv?"

(And you?)

"Wow...you're not only back...you're talking in the old tongue..."

He chuckled. "I haven't forgotten…."

He told her what had happened too. "I'm back…and I have some money…I'm gonna try and leave that life behind me….but I can't stay here…I have to move to Vice City. Around here, the rez cops will spot me."

"Look, it's illegal you escaped from prison…and it's illegal what you did to earn a life sentence but a lot of people around here…would understand why you did what you did in there. It was survival and anybody could have been in the same situation. Still, you're probably right…listen..I want you to stay over night. When it's dawn, we'll get you some new clothes and a cell phone. Then you can be on your way. We'll visit you when we can to make sure you're al right…"

"I already got a cell phone. I've had hundreds for years."

As he ate, he thought about everything he had been through including how he had gotten out of prison. The truth was, Yaholo may have been a fighter but he wasn't a sadist either. He thought back to that fateful day he escaped prison. He had pleaded down to ten years. During one of the bank jobs, he had shot a guard and almost killed him. For attempted murder he was looking at seventeen to life but pleaded down to 10% with 85% served.

He was told however, and given proof that the man on the parole board had actually been a friend of the security guard who had been shot. Another was a woman who had been one of the patrons in a robbery in the outskirts of Carcer City back in 1988. She was intimidated by him.

His lawyer had told him this was the expectation that he would likely be denied parole and have to serve the whole the time, he had been involved with the Indian Mafia. They were a lot like the Tribal Brotherhood in the South West and some midwestern prisons but by a different name. The problem was, these guys, in order for him to be protected, had expected him to join. He didn't want to join but he figured he would have to. He was a pledge of a sort.

In 2005, following a race riot that had gotten out of hand, in which initially, it was just blacks against whites, it ended up being Native Americans, Mexicans and whites against blacks. The reason being that some of the lighter skinned Mexican and Native inmate, whom Yaholo had no problem seeing as brown despite lighter pigment, the blacks didn't see it that way.

He had wondered why they attacked them anyway including a few Seminoles who though light brown, were still Seminole. It was also strange to him the way African Americans viewed Seminoles. He knew that they knew, at least in the state of Oklahoma, that the Five Nations had owned slaves and the most of these had been Cherokees so perhaps this was why so many blacks often called Cherokees the same as whites even when full blooded but also many still claimed their great great great great grandma was Cherokee.

It was never a recent ancestor and it was never a male. The same was true for the white boys. He hadn't necessarily wanted to be on the same side of a riot as the whites and in the mind of other skins they weren't. It just happened to be an instance of two enemies having the same enemy that day and blacks, for a race that valued lighter skin in their own people, sure liked to judge other light skinned minorities as "White"

The irony though was Seminoles. It seemed that because of the three different Seminole Wars in which Seminoles liberated many slaves, it was like blacks had forgotten that some Seminoles had owned them too as Seminoles were part of the Five "Civilized" tribes but it seemed they never held the same grudge with Seminoles as they did with others. Maybe it was because of the three wars, maybe it was because many Seminoles now had black in them and a lot of blacks had Seminole DNA. Usually about the same amount of each other's interchangably.

He didn't understand why they didn't often give Cherokees a pass. Though Seminoles had fought anti slavery wars and some had even gone as fighting for the union in the civil war, it wasn't like Cherokees never helped them either. Women married African men therefore causing them to be free. Yaholo knew the history. The truth was many Cherokee citizens who were freedmen did not want to go back into white or black societies for fear they would not be accepted as they had adopted Native ways.

Maybe it was for Afrocentric reasons that they had love for Seminoles. Or maybe it was because unlike Cherokees, which both anglos and African Americans claimed, whites didn't often claim Seminole. When it was Yaholo and he mentioned being Seminole, some blacks seemed shocked he wasn't half black himself or they would ask him if he had heard of the Seminole Wars which was a pretty dumb question.

He would often ask them if they knew who John Horse was the half Seminole half black scout who scouted for the army and ended up dying in Mexico. Most had not. But a few knew who Osceola was, the Seminole slave who had one Native wife and one black wife and who ended up killing his own slave master, being a leader in the war against the US, and then died of the white man's disease. But those were usually history teachers.

For that matter, though there were still many Apaches in that state, he did not know how a Seminole, full blooded or otherwise ever learned the languages of western tribes especially in the 1800's. In any case, after the riot, in which Yaholo had stabbed a few people and had even stabbed a couple of rednecks hoping to make it look like they got stabbed by the other side to shift the blame from himself, while he might have been worried the Aryan Vanguard might target him for it, or the black inmates if they somehow learned his ruse, he was worried about the wrong people.

The guards found out what he had done when the tear gas smoke cleared and the rubber bullets stopped flying. They transferred him to another state, Alderney State prison. There he stayed for another three years until one fateful day in 2008, some bikers decided to execute their former chapter president.

Yaholo was no friend to the Lost MC or the Angels of Death. He saw them as Aryans on Wheels but he was not about to get caught up in their bullshit. It seemed their leader was on his way out of there too. When the gunfight ensued, and the gates were blown, he took his only chance. He knew of another inmate, Gerald McReary, an Irish American inmate that had been booked on racketeering charges and he was surprised that he had not taken the chance to run either.

Yaholo did not know why they had shipped him to Alderney. He knew inmates were often shipped to other prisons after a riot and they had thrown extra charges at him but he had known nobody there. And sure, there were Native inmates who were also Tribal Brotherhood but the problem was one of the men who had managed to watch his ass from the whites, the blacks the Puerto Ricans and whoever else.

His aunt had been dying of cancer as well. He knew she didn't have long before it would advance in stages and he needed to get out and get that money to her that he had stashed from the robbery and pay for her care. He knew he had to bust out. And he couldn't wait two years.

He had trouble inside. He'd fought another Native inmate, a Pawnee that had been talking a lot of shit about him and his tribe. He'd beaten the man's ass but because the man was affiliated with the Indian Mafia he vowed vengeance. He had one choice. Face the wrath of the prison gang or join it. To join, he had to kill a white inmate. This was the rule of initiation. The riot had kicked off before the Pawnee asshole in Oklahoma could get at him. The problem was, there was a half Cayuga and half Seneca Indian who had told the leader in Alderney about him. Said Cayuga and Seneca had also been transferred with him. He was a nobody named Darius but

So one day, with a jailhouse knife made from a tooth brush, he approached a cornfed country boy who had grown up in Kansas and without a word, stabbed him in his larynx. The guy had been a truck driver in possession of meth across the state line and even though it was for personal use to keep him up, it was enough that they booked him on distribution charges.

In truth, Yaholo did not like the leader. His name was Malachi Durand, a man of Oneida Iroquois ancestry. Malachi was a heavy sight Native man with a reddish yet yellowish tint to his skin. In his youth he'd had long black hair and clear skin and the ladies had loved him but now he was fat and had gray hair, a gray mustache and his eyes that had once been warm and inviting in pictures of him that Yaholo had seen of him when he was young in the early 90's, his eyes were now beady and vindictive, a sneer always seemed to be his resting expression. Even though the Indian Mafia accepted half breeds if they were willing to kill for them, Malachi always looked down on them. Malachi was not a full blood himself he was more like 75% but much like an African American, if you had two black parents and you had 75% blood even if it's from two parents who were also that amount, It was the same as being pure in many people's eyes.

The thing that was creepy about him was not so much the way he disregarded half breeds as not being good enough and at best being crash dummies. Yaholo had no fear of that as he was 100%. What he didn't like was the way he seemed to look at Yaholo like he was a son as if Malachi was his crime father as opposed to biological one and it was like when he looked at the young Seminole, his twisted mind would have all kinds of schemes in mind and how he could use what was possibly his favorite soldier to accomplish whatever goal.

When Yaholo thought of the prospect of escaping prison, it was because of Malachi. He didn't want Malachi in his life forever. He also knew the middle aged man killed or had people killed without a thought.

When he had escaped, it had been with the man, Darius. Darius had tried to go to Canada. He had gone through the Mohawk reservation, the closest tribe to the Oneidas who were west of the easternmost tribe while the Cayugas and Senecas were the furthest west. The tribal police had caught him.

Not trusting Darius, he had been saying along the way that he would be headed for Mexico and after that, if the police were onto him and there was any chance they would try to extradite him, Belize. It was of course, bullshit but he didn't trust the shady Iroquois anymore than he could throw him so he had fed him misinformation.

After all, Darius had hoped that Malachi would have Yaholo killed just for beating up the Pawnee inmate even though that inmate had pissed virtually everybody off in that prison even other Tribal Brotherhood members.

He had escaped in 2008 but due to all the heat that was going on, he couldn't have gotten to his mother if he wanted to. He wanted to still find a way past the police but by the time he got as far south as Vermont, he had learned she had died.

He didn't want to burden his aunt too long or his sister. He wondered if his old best friend he had grown up with was still here. His friend, Reggie Espinoza was around here. He snuck out after everybody was asleep and walked to where his best friend had saw a dark red Voodoo in the driveway. He knocked on the door.

A dark brown face stuck out. The man had short black hair and always seemingly happy looking eyes. His eyes looked tired now, however. Reggie Espinoza was of Seminole as well as Mvskogee ancestry. He also had some white and black blood from the 1800's the latter of which he most likely owed to the Seminole Wars or maybe even the peace time between them, the former, he owed his Spanish last name to. Some people thought he was part South American because of this but people forgot that one of the first European languages and people the Seminoles would have had contact with were the Spanish and the entire state had once been considered New Spain. "What in the fuck…Yah, you're still alive?!"

"Yeah…and I aint a zombie. So you can relax that 12 gauge you got behind the door…." Stated the taller Seminole with a grin. He brought him in and gave him a bear hug. Though Sam was 5'11, without too much muscle to speak of he was still a strong son of a bitch.

"You got some explaining to do, cousin. You had us all fucked up from the news you didn't make it, man….they said they shot several inmates running outta there…a few John Doe's nobody could identify…"

"Yeah well…I'm here…you know why I had to…."

"Brandon, huh?" He said with a chuckle and the two had a shot of whiskey. "Yeah…I know why. I'm sorry about your mom, man. I lost mine back in '06. Anyway, what are ya doing back? I get this aint federal land but shit aint you afraid the tribal cops will haul you in? Turn you over to the Fag Investigation's Bureau?"

"The thought occurred to me, yeah. Auntie told me I could stay here but…I honestly think I got better odds of not getting caught in Vice City. It's just bigger ya know? I don't want to get hauled in either. These pigs, they don't understand what ya gotta do to survive in there. They'd do the same thing if they were ever on a gen pop yard. Which would never happen."

"You're preaching to the fuckin choir,bro. Which is to say you're preaching to the condemned. You know how many times I been to jail out here and state prison? Still…I'd take prison here over outta state any day. Look…you need some work?"

"Yeah I do…and honestly, I was hoping you might help me find a place in Vice City. I know you got apartments out there, man. You might have a record but you were always good with business and money. I aint asking for charity I'll do whatever you need me to do to earn my keep."

"Let me ask you this, cousin. Do you got a social security number to go with that fake ID?"

"Yeah. That's the only way I was able to work. That plus I did stash the money from before. Okay look..no…I don't have a social security. That's not as easy to come by as fake ID's and I had to pay a lot for that."

"All right…I think I can help you out with that. But yeah until you do have a social, you are fucked. F-U-C-K-E-D! So you'll have to work with me, dude. But cousin?" He gave the bigger man a slap on the back. "You came to the right place. We're all family here."

Ocean Beach

Wet Foot Dry Foot

She had seen the Cuban on the beach and had tried to call out to him but she was too weak. She wasn't sure if he had seen her or not. Zara Lacroix was cold and she was tired and she was hungry. Freezing, really. She had been on a boat from Haiti to get here. The Earthquake had destroyed her home there. She was of brown complexion and had curly hair, her skin lighter than the average Haitian. She had lost them both when she was only three years old. She'd been raised her entire life as an orphan. They had been murdered in '86 just after Baby Doc's presidency had been ousted. They were not gone from the country as it was. They were still there well into the 90's. Front For The Advancement and Progress Of Haiti.

They had burned her orphanage to the ground. They had made the children into soldiers, they had forced fathers to rape daughters, they had forced sons to cut their mother heads off. They'd hung bodies from trees and killed anybody that tried to cut them down.

She had lived her whole life working odd jobs arond the country but her whole wold was ripped apart when the Earthquake happened. She had two friends she had come up with. Lisa and Rose. Rose had arrived in Vice City last year. Zara and Lisa had stayd behind to try and help but things were too hard in the country. They had learned English from Red Cross workers that were there in the months they'd been there.

Zara found it easier to learn Spanish and she had her heart set on going to the Dominican Republic illegally and they did this. They had made a deal between themselves that if the Dominican Republic didn't work out for them, they would try the United States. While Zara had learned what Spanish she could, Lisa had paid attention to the English lessons she learned and she had several dictionaries in English and a bible.

Because of Lisa, she had learned some of the language and between the two of them, they had a year's worth of English they could speak. It wasn't much but it was a lot better than many illegal immigrants from all over the world. She was not as fluent as Lisa was but she was trying. She just found Spanish easier and nicer on the ears as it was a Latin Roman language like French while English was harsh and Germanic.

She got to the shore soaked by the water and tears but she fell. She had a bullet wound on her left arm. It wasn't that the bullet was in her. It wasn't. The man smuggling them had shot at her and grazed her. "Get out of my boat!" He had screamed, the dark skinned Haitian trafficker had screamed demanding payment up front changing the deal and kicking those off who could not comply. The majority could not and she was no exception.

Just then, an African American male with a shaved head and light skin wearing sunglasses saw her on the beach. He wore an orange Hawaiiin T shirt and black jeans He looked to be in his thirties. He came running towards her. "Miss, are you okay?"

She shivered saying, "Lisa..." Before falling over. He caught her but everything went black.

5 Hours Later

She woke up and sat up in a bed wearing clothes she knew she didn't own. Have I been kidnapped?! She thought. She looked around. "Hey you're up...do you speak English?"

"Where are my clothes?! Who are you?!" She demanded. "Whoa easy...i didn't do anything bad your clothes were soaked and you were damn near hypothemic, all right? it was either that or let you die."

"How would I know you didn't do anythingg to me while I was out?!" She demanded holding the butcher knife on him. "For starters...I'm gay..."

She put the knife down. "Who are you? And where am I?"

"You're in Old Town. That's Northwest of downtown. Sorry to say it aint the nicest neighborhood but it's home for me. And a lovely Haitian gal like yourself..you'd fit right in."

"Why not Little Haiti?"

"That's the first place INS would look if they knew about you. You got family out there? I mean maybe I can help you get set up there..."

"Are you a pimp?" She asked. "What?!" His eyes widened. "You know if you hadn't been through so much i'd be offended right now. Hell no I aint a pimp. That what they tell you down there? Every brother on the mainland is pimping?"

"Wll then why would you help a strange woman on a beach and offer to help me? Why not take me to hospital?"

"You're obviously an illegal alien. The white man don't take too kindly to that."

"I am a refugee...not an alien. Don't they have the wet foot dry foot policy...?"

"It doesm't matter... they can still deport you. Look...maybe I should be asking you something. You in a gang?"

"No. Do you assume this because I am from Haiti?"

"Hell nah. It's cause that's a bullet wound on you. Now if you're gonna get on me about checking up on you while you was out, you should be thanking me cause even though there aint a slug in you, your wound could have gotten infected. You ever heard of gangrene? You don't want that."

"It's..." She said, "It's a long story...the man who smuggled me here..." He sighed. "Damn...you know...I heard stories from Mexicans that got into this country through the border and the coyotes fuck with them and I been living here my whole life an I knew Haitians didn't have it any beter. Maybe it's worse in some ways cause you're in the water and not land. Are you okay? I mean...obviously you're okay now but...are you okay?"

"I am fine. Merci boucoup...what is your name?"

"Samuel. Most call me Sammy. Sammy Wellington. What's yours?"

"Zara Lacroix."

"That's a pretty name. So what you doing in Vice City?"

"I'm looking for my friend. Rose. I have heard she lives in Little Haiti."

"I mean I can give you a lift out there if that's where you want to be. But I got a question. Who is Lisa?" She looked down in sorrow. "I do not want to talk about it..."

Just then, they heard four gunshots outside. He went to the window and she jumped. "Look, it's all right...it's all right...look...truth is...Old Tow...it's a bit of a hood..."

"Hood...?" She asked in a shaky breath. "You know...like neighborhood? Slum."

"Oh..."

She looked out the window at the people on the street. The vast majority were black but some were from Latin America and whites were less than 3% of the population. She saw men in baggy clothing out on the corner.

"Who are they?"

"Those are bad men they're part of the Old Town Knight. They're a bunch of no good hustlers. Street thugs. They historically aint been that nice to Zoe ladies like yourself either."

"Fuck…."

"Yeah tell me about it. I don't understand them. They kind of started off from the aftermath of the riots back in '68..after Dr King got killed. This place was one of the few in the south that would let a brotha stay at a hotel out here. I aint saying it formed right away but I wanna say maybe the 70's these dudes started banding together especially cause after the riots the next decade was cocaine cowboy shit…." He said. "So they hit the ground running."

He helped her outside and she insisted she was fine. "I am not a baby…."

"All right…well I'm taking you to this lady you're looking for. I aint a snitch and I'm not against immigrants coming here but at the same time I could lose my own job if they caught me with you."

Just then, an African American on the corner wearing a black hooded sweater despite the heat and a white do-rag called out, "Hey mama how you doing?" Sammy advised, "Just ignore him. Trust me. These fools are stuck in the 80's."

"Hey yo! I'm talking to you!" The man was big about six feet tall and muscular. On his right arm he had a tattoo that had a black knife pounding a white horse. This was the telltale tattoo that many Old Town Knights wore.

"She aint talking to you, Iverson. Just beat it, dog…." Sam stated. "Why don't you try being a gentlemen for once?"

"Who the fuck you think you is, Uncle Sammy? Captain Save a Ho? You just live here this my hood and if you bringing new booty it aint no fun if the homies can't have none…."

"She's not a piece of meat. I'm telling you to fuck off."

"I can speak up for myself…." She protested. "Oh shit…you brought an island hoochie to the motherfuckin hood…."

"Fuck off Yankee dog. I am not interested…." She spat. Sam opened the door to his Greenwood. "Zara, don't respond to him just get in the car…."

The gang member directed his two homeboys to go up to them. The first wore a Vice City Mambas jersey and had muscular forearms adorned with tattoos. BK on the left arm and FK on the Right GK was just under it for Gangster Apostle Killa in addition to disrespecting the Los Santos transplant had dreadlocks and sneer to his face and a tattoo of Knights in bold Roman style letters across his neck. He was about 5'9.

The other gang member was bald with sunglasses on and stood five ten wearing a white t shirt and baggy blue jeans. "Sam, you better get ya ass across the street and apologize to my homie before we take your car and your bitch. That's real talk, nigga…."

The dread locked gangster, failing to see either of the two blacks make a move, lifted up his jersey and pulled out a 9mm which he cocked and aimed at Sam's head. "Yeah shit just got real, homie. This bitch from Haiti. I seen that they found some other dead Haitian bitch washed up with bullets in her. You wanna join her?"

Just then, Sam said, "Luke can't we just…." Before grabbing the gun which went off shattering his back passenger window on the right side. He took it after kicking the Knight in the stomach. The other Knight went to grab his own piece as was the Knight across the street when suddenly the sound of automatic gunfire went off and the man with the dreads was hit in the side and the back of the head and bloody chunks of flesh came off with dreads.

The other Knight managed to get off two shots at the invading car before he took five rounds in the gut from the same Uzi that had just mowed his friend down. A carload of gunmen, driving in a dark blue Felon were rolling up. A man in a dark blue Soccer jersey of about 5'7 with dark skin had fired the Uzi. He had a ski mask on however so he could not be seen and neither could the driver or the other two passengers.

Another gunmen carried an AK-47 which he fired striking the man across the street who was firing back with a Beretta. The man took six rounds in the stomach that were 7.62 rounds while the other passenger fired off two Glock 17's and four rounds hit him in the chest and as he fell to his knees crumbling, two more hit him in the right shoulder.

Several rounds were fired at Zara and Sam as well though she could not figure out why. Surely they must have seen the argument between them! They must have seen Sam take the pistol!

Two more Knights came from up the block firing at the car but trying to take cover. The Uzi ran out but not before hitting one of them in both knees. The sickening squish and pop sound reminded Zara of back home and as he bled out the street, cartilage mixed in with the man's jean fabric, his friend took four in the left arm from the AK.

It was because the Haitian gunmen were firing on them too that Sam returned fire with the gangster's gun letting off seven shots. He did manage to hit the Haitian shooter in the right shoulder as they rolled past. Suddenly, Sam was hit. He took a round in the right side of the chest only Zara was not sure if it was a ricochet from the Knights who had returned fire just before getting shot themselves or if it was from the Haitian shooter with two pistols.

"Fuck…." He cried out. She grabbed the pistol from his hands as the car circled around coming back for another ambush. She fired the remaining magazine trying to take them all out and be as precise as possible. She managed to hit the Uzi shooter with a headshot and managed to hit the driver four times before the magazine ran out, and she watched as the man's white t shirt became bright red.

She helped Samuel into the passenger seat and put the keys in. Several rounds went through the windshield as the Haitian gangsters were switching sweats and the man with the two handguns fired at the car and got in the drivers seat while the man with the AK fired on them as well as they took off but luckily, Zara had about thirty feet on them and she sped off into traffic. The carload of Haitians gave chase and they tried to use the windshield wipers on the blood.

She sped down MLK Boulevard taking a right on Thurgood Marshall. From there, she sped up towards Braxton Avenue. It was a red light but she had to risk it if she wanted to make it to Little Haiti. She floored it barely making it past the cars coming from the side and the Felon skidded to a stop as the Haitian gangster fired the last fifteen at them.

She repeated the address and phone number over and over. "Zara…just leave me girl…this city is hostile for refugees..they won't look twice at another dead motherfucker from Kingstown…."

"No…you saved my life. I have to repay the debt…" The Haitian female declared. Before long they were in Little Haiti, a very run down neighborhood but yet it resembled home and some of the smells she'd smelled back on the island filled he nostrils including the food. But this was no time for nostalgia.

She grabbed the barely conscious Sam and cried out, "ROSE!" The door opened and an Afro Caribbean woman came out. She wore her hair in a colorful red green and yellow scarf and a colorful red and white shirt and a white summer skirt. She barely had time to take in the sight of her friend. "Zara….?"

"EDE MWEN!"

(HELP ME!)

"Kiyès sa?!"

(Who is this?!)

"Mwen pral eksplike tout bagay, mwen te pwomèt. Men, nonm sa a sove lavi m '. Mwen dwe retounen favè a epi mwen pa ka fè li pou kont li!" Zara said in a panic.

(I'll explain everything, I promise. But this man saved my life. I have to return the favor and I can't do it alone!)

Rose helped her get him inside. "Hey..." Sam said, "I aint really gay...at least..I don't think so..." He let out a laugh before he blacked out.

 _Vice City Junkyard_

 _Dixie Boy Colombian Problem_

Randall Schroeder had been laying low for at least two days. He didn't like working with people he didn't know. He preferred working with family. He came from a long line of the dixie mob. The Schroeder family was big in Northern Florida and even other states in the south. The problem was, this wasn't Northern Florida. This was Vice City and to play here you had to be neighborly. Randall was a dark skinned Caucasian man his skin tone almost like that of a Greek his eyes blue and bright and somehow blue eyes with tan skin always seemed ten times brighter than pale skin. He was about 5'11 and scrawny and in his late thirties.

He sat in the junk yard with nothing but a Glock 17 to keep him safe. Finally a car pulled up. He also had a bandage around his shoulder. "You want to tell me why the hell we had to kill that old fucker? I get that diversifying is good. Networking. But if it was small time shit, I could have robbed cabbies in North Florida if I wanted to!"

The African American, a man named Jesse Maguire stated, "This aint North Florida, man. This is my town, bitch. And you saw what happened. Brenda got shot same as you. We're still looking for that Cuban motherfucker. That's what this was really about. If it was all about the cab we could have done that shit ourselves."

"So this was a bounty? You mind telling me who we killed?"

"They didn't find a body..." The Jamaican gunmen, a man named Theodore Hayes stated, his thick accent calm but his voice had a state of alertness to it. "And that was Graciella Escobedo's boy. Him half Cuban, seen?"

Jesse nodded. "But that motherfucker pissed a lot of people off in South America so a lot of serious motherfuckers want him clipped. Maybe just as much if not more than his moms. But for different reasons. Reasons that aint none of our business. We just do this for the paper."

"You had us go after the Black Widow's son? Are you outta your fuckin mind?!" The redneck criminal snarled. "it don't matter what reason Brenda had for that shit. His mama will have every one of us with our head on a plate and our balls in our mouths. I'm out. I'll keep my mouth shut but I'm out."

"What if we kill you now, huh?!" Demanded Theodore. "Ask Jesse why that's a bad idea. Let's just say I aint no Escobedo but my family has juice in this state. A hell of a lot more than any Yardie does. You fuck with me you fuck with my family and if you fuck with my family you sign the death warrant for yours. And I mean all of them, Teddy. Not just you."

"Aight mothefucker!" Screamed Jesse. "You want out? You're out but when we bag this bitch you aint getting none of the payoff!"

He walked out, hoping to get back to the trailerpark before his stitches opened again and he'd need another shirt. He called a cab. "Dead men don't spend money asshole!" He called back as he walked toward the arriving cab. He didn't mind Jesse as much but he didn't like Theodore after the shit he pulled today. And he damn sure didn't like Brenda Duarte for coming up with this job. But even though he was the most okay with Jesse, he valued his own ass more.

He had to hope that if the Colombian cartel were to catch up to the other three, they wouldn't give him up or that they'd have to be ready to fight a war which he and his family most certainly didn't want. He dialed a number in his cell. "Billy Joe. I need you to meet me over at Sadie's. We gotta talk..."

* * *

Jesse Borrego is the visual basis for Willie. He is also based on Michael Corleone Blanco the son of Griselda Blanco. He was arrested in 2011 in Miami for smuggling coke. If you think about it too, that's a hell of a name to not only have the surname of a woman who was arguably worse than Pablo Escobar but also to be named after a Godfather character? Fugattaboutit!

The reason doing a modern Vice City story was what I wanted was it's a challenge plus VC and VCS had Scarface and Miami Vice themes so a modern Vice City story would and should have themes from Burn Notice, CSI Miami and Dexter.

Rodney Grant is the visual basis for Yaholo Bromden and yes I based his last name off Chief Bromden from One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest who may have been the supporting character in the movie but is the protagonist in the book. That riot in Oklahoma was an actual riot and while I had to make up the reasons as for why it happened, it did happen actually there were two race riots I know of but I can't tell if it was the same or two different ones because both were mentioned in the same article it talks about a non racist white dude who joined the Aryan Brotherhood for protection and he was killed in the riot his mother understood why he had to join up but his mother was more angry at the AB for failing to protect him than the dudes that killed him or at least equally angry but it seems the whites took greater losses in that riot which in Oklahoma is kinda shocking.

Walton Goggins is the visual basis for Randall Schroeder. His character is somewhat based on his character Boyd Crowder from Justified but with none of the white supremacist bullshit only the whole crime family thing I figured with Morgan in Carpe Diem as an AV member that's really all we need to do with that.

Angela Lewis from Snowfall is the visual basis for Zara Lacroix all though that's more her appearance and skin tone but as far as her accent and how she sounds, she is based on the French actress Mickaëlle X Bizet who played Gabrielle Durand in American Crime Story season 3. To me the two actresses actually look alike it's just one is from Detroit and one is from France. Though in terms of build and maybe as she gets older she'd be more based on Haitian American actress Garcelle Beauvais...maybe...that was what Zilla voted for and normally I would agree with you and I personally have made other characters based on who you pictured but this particular time, sorry man nd I only say for the reason of age. Maybe when Zara's character has aged that could change.

Ruben Blades is the visual basis for Hernando Moreno

David Zayas is the visual basis for Ronaldo Moreno

Elizabeth Rodriguez is the visual basis for Gabriella Moreno

Erik King from Dexter and Oz is the visual basis for Sam

Hispanic Syndicate is based on the Miami street gang Latin Syndicate a Cuban American yet multi ethnic street gang that is allied with the Imperial Gangsters. Also the term yuma is Cuban slang for white Americans while prieto means black americans. I don't know what the actual translation.

The Ghede Posse AKA Zoe posse is based on the Zoe Pound gang the gang that controls Little Haiti as well as being a stand in for the Haitian gang that was in Vice City. As Vice City shows it they probably meant them to represent Zoe Pound but Zoe Pound would not exist till '92.

Ghede meaning death God. You see I didn't want toi in any way base anything of the Sons Of Samedi in Saints Ro2 but that is a good name but they also used Loa dust too. I was going to have the gang be name after Zamballah the Haitian creator God since Samedi as the lord of the dead was taken but I thought Ghede sounds more sinister. Plus it's a weird and unusual gang name just like Zoe Pound. Believe it or not, Zara will at some point still be on good terms with the Ghede Posse. The reason they shot at her was they thought they were Knights too.

El Nivel is based on the Latin Syndicate gangster Level Martinez who became a boxer while El Trineo is based on the incarcerated founder of Latin Syndicate, Hammer.

Even though I didn't name drop Umberto Robina cause of the 3d era vs HD, you can pretty much assume that's who I meant and I thought if him and his father died who would take over so I had Antonio be the guy who would.

Little Colombia is based on West Kendell while Abiaka is based on Kendell.

Abiaka being the name of a Seminole hero who fought American imperialism and stopped his entire tribe from being removed to Oklahoma. Even though I got a lot of pride in my own tribe for what we've done, the battles we've won, the form of government we helped stat that's pretty much worldwide whether each government in the world is true to the prinicipals or not, but fuck man, the Seminoles they never signed a peace treaty with the US. Something even my nation can't claim. Nor can Lakotas or Apaches or even Shawnees who i personally give them the most bad ass US tribe title in terms of who did the most damage to the US army but the Seminole, for their corner of Turtle Island, said fuck that you're not taking us all to Oklahoma and you will never drive us ALL out of Florida so for that they have my respect. John Horse doesn't because he became a scout so fuck him but Osceola and Abiaka are legends.

Kingstown AKA Old Town is based on Overtown which was considered like the Harlem of the South. The Old Town Knights I mean I made that gang up but if I had to say they were based on anybody, it would be the African American gang the Yanks. I don't know their origin or how they were founded but the MLK death and riots that followed it was a turning point not only for most major US cities but also just black areas in general. I think before that point, what would be called a ghetto wasn't as bad.

In terms of how bad buildings looked I mean.

The Monarchos are based on the Imperial Gangsters a gang from Chicago but who are also found in Miami.

The visual basis for Reggie Mendoza is the same guy who played Victor on Blackstone. Undecided on Debra, Yaholo's sister but his Aunt is visually based on the actress Sheila Tousey.

I hope you like this first chapter I should be able to update soon enough. And to any guest reviewers and flamers, go away and die. Your reviews will automatically be deleted as i said before.

To everybody else have a good week. Oh before I forget Big Willow reservation is based on the Big Cypress Reservation.


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